Princess and the Popstar

I've spent a thousand nights alone

"No way," he said, sitting up in bed. "No way. No way, there's absolutely no way."

The email glowed, brightly, on his screen, in the dark.

"No. Way."

His tour bus was silent, he was the only one there.

He was sitting in his bed, his loft, really, because underneath it was his couch, and across from it was the plasma-screen tv and the table and blah blah blah... yeah. You get the picture. His bus was nice. Really nice. His dad had wanted him to ride in style. For some unknown reason. His dad hated everything he did, always demanded more, and yet. He had a nice tour bus. God knows why.

But.

This email. This email changed everything.

He scanned it, again, once more, just to make sure he knew exactly what it said, and pulled out his phone. His mom was at a nearby hotel, and he really hoped she had her phone on. He dialed in her number, and let it ring.

He kept reading and re-reading the words from the email.

"What do you want?" His mother said, per the norm, as she picked up. "It's two a.m. This had better be an emergency."

"Uh," Keefe said, "I got an email."

"Wow," she said, and sarcasm dripped off her words like chocolate syrup running down the side of a glass when you missed the cup of milk and got it all over the sides. "How peculiar. It's almost like you're in charge of your own email."

"Mom," he said, his voice excited, "It's from the royal secretary of Haliona."

"Keefe, you're not really this much of an idiot, it's clearly a scam--"

"It's a valid address. It looks really official. It's got codes and decryptions and everything."

"Why would the royal secretary of whatever-made-up-country-you-said bother emailing you?"

Keefe shrugged, even though his mom couldn't see it. "Says they want me to play, since "Adore You" is top of the charts right now, for their daughter's debutante ball in a month."

"What?!?!?!" his mother clicked on a few things, no doubt opening up his email account, which wasn't really even his email account, since it was only used for work-related stuff, and his fan-managing account was overloaded with emails at any given moment. He'd checked on that account last week and had an honest-to-goodness panic attack. Not his first one, but definitely the first one triggered by Fan-response. "Holy... That does look official. I'll fact check it and see if it's true in the morning."

"Mom," he said, "It's time sensitive. They've contacted five other artists. And they want me, we need to act now, and--"

"Don't you dare order me around, young man. I am your mother. You owe me everything."

"...Sorry, Mom."

"And it appears you are correct. I'll contact your father and the royals, and get this little opportunity booked."

And she hung up. No "I love you" no "Goodbye," just boop. The phone call was over. The end. Who knew if he'd be flying to Haliona in a month.

He dialed a different number.

A sleep-filled voice answered. "Wassup, Keefe? Why are you calling at like... what time is it? Why aren't you asleep? You've got like two interviews tomorrow. And a Genius Song Video."

"I know, but you know I never sleep. Tam, you'll never guess who emailed me!"

"Geez, I don't know, Man. You're already friends on twitter with every celebrity this side of the moon, so, uh. I don't know. The pope. Pope Francis emailed you. He wants you to play on Easter."